


Always Where I Need to Be

by Tonight_At_Noon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, And Lots of It, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Musicians, Swearing, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-05-15 09:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonight_At_Noon/pseuds/Tonight_At_Noon
Summary: Darcy and Bucky hated each other in high school. Really, really hated each other. Several years on, they both find themselves in DC recovering from weirdly similar bad break-ups.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Another multi-chapter. But I promise I will have this complete come summer's end. Please hold me to that promise. 
> 
> This is something I've been working on for a while trying to shape out the story, so I'm hoping that will mean I won't get stuck. Here is the prologue. I should have the first chapter edited and posted by Monday at the latest.
> 
> Also. I love The Kooks. So, props to them for existing.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

**. **

_I care for your heart,_

_But not for it beating_

_You tried to put a frown on me,_

_Fell me down_

_You're spreading bad things about me_

_All over town_

All Over Town | The Kooks

**. ** 

 

**Prologue | Fake Love and Real Hate**

 

**.**

 

The folded piece of paper falls out of Darcy’s locker and floats on top of her Doc Martens before the door opens all the way. Confused—no-one has ever slipped a note into her locker before, and she is too clean to have left a random slip of paper in there—she bends down and scoops up the foreign object. _Darcy_ it reads on the front in scratchy writing. Hearts—poorly drawn hearts, to be clear—decorate the perimeter. One of Cupid's arrows drives through her name. She unfolds the paper slowly, as if a bomb hides inside, ready to blow her up, and reads its contents with her breath held.

 

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_I’m into big women,_

_Darcy - I’m into you_

_Love - and I mean it - Ian_

 

Darcy’s heart sinks deep into her belly. Rage circulates through her veins, spiking her bloodstream and turning her skin hot pink. She crushes the paper in her fist. Slamming her locker shut, loud enough that the metallic clang echoes throughout the empty hallway, she marches towards the quad. 

She knows exactly who is behind this cruel note. And it sure as hell isn’t Ian.

Peering out the small window of the door, she spots him sitting with his cronies—oh, what a fancy, old-fashioned word, _cronies_ ; pissed off Darcy is a lover of archaic language—in the grassy, sunny, noisy quad. She holds the note tightly, readying herself for battle. Ian sits beside him, but she cannot let her embarrassment stop her from confronting her bully. Squaring her shoulders, she pushes the door open and storms towards him, ignoring the stares of their fellow students. 

To be perfectly honest, she isn’t sure what she’s going to say when he finally realises she’s there to confront him. He’ll probably beat her to the first quip, the fucker, but she is known for her wit. At least she would be if she had more than one friend. 

His blue eyes light up the moment he spots her. 

“Darcy Lewis, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he cries. 

Everyone in the quad goes silent. Darcy feels their curious stares on her back. Unclenching her fist, she throws the crumpled note at his head. It bounces off of his eyebrow. He barely flinches.

“Did you really think I’d fall for this? What are we, five?” she says, watching him pull open the wrinkled paper. His head dips. A smile forms on his smug, stupid face. “Did you just watch _Heathers_ for the first time last night?”

“What makes you think I’m behind this?” He says it with a mocking smile. A daring glint twinkles in his eyes. He hands the page to Ian. “It’s got this guy’s name on it.”

Ian bows his head. Humiliation blooms on his cheeks as Darcy watches, horrified. Trust James Barnes to hold a little three-year-old crush for the English transfer student over her head. She never should have signed his yearbook. One heart next to her name was all it took for the school asshole to decide she was madly in love. 

It didn’t matter that the yearbook debacle happened at the close of freshman year. It didn’t matter that Darcy had quickly gotten over Ian during that summer. James had been shown the signature, and that was enough for him to add it to his Torture Darcy material. A piece of material that had survived three long, horrific years.

Poor Ian. 

Does he think she still fantasises about being swept off her feet by him? 

“I know it was you,” she spits. “It’s your handwriting.”

“Now, how do you know that? Stalker much?”

“We were lab partners all last year! I was forced to correct your spelling on basically all of the worksheets we handed in. Don't you remember that I'm the reason you managed to scrape by with a C? Or were you too busy abusing memory-loss drugs?”

James leans back against the picnic table and shrugs. “Maybe Ian here,” he says, nudging the still-blushing boy with his elbow and completely ignoring her reference to when he was suspended for two weeks after he was caught with his mom's prescription pills, “was too nervous to write the note himself and asked me to do it for him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she says.

“Debatable.”

Darcy holds back a shriek. She won't give him quite that much satisfaction. “I know it was you, you motherfucker.” 

The quad collectively gasps. 

The teacher in charge of watching over the students who eat outside perks his head up from his grade book and stands, pointing between the two gladiators. “Hey, cut that out. No swearing on school grounds. You two know the rules,” he says warningly. "Keep it clean, or it's detention."

Her tormenter rises to his feet. Ignoring the continued complaints from the teacher, he takes one threatening step towards Darcy. Ian tugs at his t-shirt and tells him to sit down, but the angry jock pulls free. 

Darcy tilts her head back and glares at James. “You fat-phobic piece of shit,” she says. Her neck twinges. “Why do you keep doing this to me? Aren’t you tired of being such a horrible person?”

“You’re just too fucking easy to poke,” he says, his finger going into her shoulder. “You’re like a bear. You always rise to the challenge and attack.”

“I’m done being your plaything.”

“Oh, right, you’d much rather be Ian’s plaything, wouldn’t you? You naughty girl,” he taunts.

Darcy snaps. She hears something tear inside of her and her mouth opens and she yells, “I don’t fucking like Ian! I haven’t liked Ian since freshman fucking year. Get over it. Find something new to tease me about, you motherfucking lazy _cunt_!”

The world around them freezes. 

She has never used that word out loud before. She doesn’t even know if she has ever _thought_ that word. But there it is, hanging on James’ face like a string of saliva for their classmates to see. Darcy stumbles back as if the word has taken all of the energy out of her. Glancing up at James, she sees his mouth flicker up in what almost looks like an impressed smirk.

“That’s it! Detention, both of you. Get to the principle’s office and she’ll put you into the system.” The teacher in the quad shoves a couple of pink slips against James’ chest. He points to the doors.

Darcy wobbles towards the building. James follows behind her. The whole quad stares after them, and she knows this exchange will be the talk of the school until graduation at the end of the month. 

Fucking James Barnes, always shining an unwanted spotlight on her. 

 

 

“Psst.”

“Psst, Darcy.”

“Hey, Darcy, look at me.”

Darcy does her best to not pay any attention to James. Since the teacher who is supposed to be watching them left for a “vending machine break” thirty minutes ago, he has done nothing but pester her. Keeping her head low, she focuses on her AP US Government paper. It’s the last assignment she has due before finals. Her last assignment as a high school student. As much as she adores Government as a class, she is thrilled to be nearing the finish line. 

Well, she would be thrilled if it weren’t for James opening his loud, blabbering mouth every other minute. His obnoxious cries for attention are distracting her—which, of course, is his intention—and if she could, she would duck tape his mouth shut. She would tie him to his chair and leave him here to starve and die and rot.

_The age of technology_ , Darcy writes, _has therefore complicated the political sphere in vastly negative ways_ —

Something taps the back of Darcy’s head. Squeezing her pencil so hard she feels it fracture, she looks down at her feet to find a ball of paper on the floor. She turns to glower at James.

“Finally.”

“Finally?” she seethes. Angry does not begin to describe what she is feeling. 

“Yeah. Finally I was able to get your attention.”

“Did you not stop to think that the reason I’ve been ignoring you,” she says through her teeth, reaching down and snatching the paper, “has been because I don’t want to look or talk to you? Preferably ever again.” She tosses the paper in his direction, missing his cheek by a centimetre. The force of her throw moves his hair. She huffs, returning her focus to the essay. 

“It’s all fun and games,” he says.

Okay. That is enough to push the Government essay out of Darcy’s mind completely. She whips around in her desk. “It’s all _fun and games_?” she says. “The tormenting? The bullying? The intimidation? The rumours, the lies, the humiliation? Is that the _fun and games_ to which you’re referring?” 

James, his legs spread out beneath the desk, his back halfway down the desk chair, shrugs. “Well, yeah. I don’t mean any harm by it.”

“God, that’s such _bullshit_. Just please stop talking to me, James. We only have fifteen fucking minutes left and I’d really rather spend those fifteen minutes pretending you don’t exist.” 

“It’s Bucky.”

Darcy’s eyebrows go down. “ _What_?”

“Nobody calls me James,” he says, smiling idly, forever teasing her. 

“Whatever,” she sighs, shaking her head and twisting away.

Twenty-five minutes later, Darcy unlocks her car and shoves her backpack in the passenger seat, moving around the vehicle to open her door. She wants to go home, cuddle her dog, and sleep for the whole weekend. Today has been probably the worst day of senior year. And that includes the day before winter break when James started the rumour her dad was leaving the family for a prostitute he’d met in Manhattan. 

At least she hadn’t gotten detention that day. 

“Is this your car?” 

_You have got to be fucking kidding me_. Darcy looks over the roof of her car at the shiny Mercedes in the parallel spot. 

James stands at his driver’s side door, arching his eyebrow at Darcy’s rusty Civic. 

“This old thing? No. Both the BMW and the Lambo were in the shop this morning, so I had to take the maid’s. You know how it goes,” she jeers with a smooth roll of her eyes. 

“You’re funny,” he says. “I think that’s what I like most about you.”

“Oh, I think you’re the funny one. When have you ever liked anything about me?”

He stares at her. Intently. Focused. Like he’s a scientist and she is an amoeba hanging out underneath his microscope. She feels exposed. Naked. As if he can hear every thought going in and out of her mind, as if he can read every microscopic twitch of her body and understand its meaning. 

Then, with a bewildered smile, “God, Darcy, I think I’ve always liked you. Just a little. Maybe a lot.”

“Liked . . . as in always liked to hate me? Always liked to make my life miserable?” She laughs. Because it must be some twisted joke.

He laughs too. Shakes his head so his hair falls into his eyes. He pushes back the strands and flashes her his perfectly straight and blinding teeth. “No.”

“Goodbye, James,” she says firmly. Opening her car door, she slides inside, but not before she hears him say, “See, it turns me on when you use my real name.”

Disgusted, perplexed, Darcy pretends not to have heard the comment, or the last one, or the one before—especially the one before—and starts the engine. She drives out of her parking space, her head buzzing too much to care if the bump she hits is a rock or James Barnes’ foot.

 

**. **

_ Yes, but you're no poet, man _

_ You just want everyone looking at you _


	2. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, you guys really surprised me with your initial reaction to this story! I hope this first chapter is something along the lines of what you were looking for.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

 

**. **

_Oh, you had it it all_

_ When they took it away from you _

_ You wanted to fall  _

_ And they took it away from you _

_ You had it all _

_ Now there's nothing left to lose _

Icons | The Kooks

**. **

 

** Part One | The Beginning of A Beautiful Friendship **

 

**.**  

 

Nobody in the crowded pub is paying attention to Darcy Lewis. This means two things. First, it means she can cry into her vodka soda without anyone politely tapping her on the shoulder to check if she’s okay. This is a relief, as Clint’s only condition when she sat down at the bar fifteen minutes ago was that she wasn’t allowed to cry. If they’re all too busy with their own lives to notice her, if they’re all calling on Clint for their drink orders, then she can let her tears trickle into her glass in peace. 

Second, it means the pub is packed. Which it never is. Especially not on a Wednesday night. It isn’t just the regular crowd. The lumberjack types and tired assistants running away from the Mall. It’s a wildly diverse group of people shouldering one another to either get to the bar or closer to the stage. 

The stage is new. Clint had it built by those lumberjack types in the spring in an effort to pull in musical acts struggling to make a name for themselves. The grand plan is that the musicians shout out the pub and bring their fans inside. It hasn’t necessarily been working, but maybe all of that is about to change. Surreptitiously wiping her eyes, Darcy spots the name on the chalkboard between the shelves of liquor. The Winter Soldiers. She’s never heard of them. But apparently everyone else in Archers tonight has. 

Has he heard of them? He, the man whose name she will not allow herself to even think, because if Clint thinks silently weeping in a public space is bad, he does not want to see her break into full, guttural sobs that work overtime to steal her breath and sanity. 

She decides, the tears rolling down her cheeks again, that he probably has. He's always up to speed on the local underground talent. She can’t count how many shows he dragged her to over the years, and apparently DC is a hotbed for undiscovered bands and solo artists. But he won’t be here tonight, she assures herself, a small seed of dread taking root in her throat. He knows this is her space. Besides, there is no way Clint would allow him inside. Except maybe Clint can’t control who is and isn’t here tonight. 

“What was the one rule, Darcy?” 

Clint’s gruff voice invades her racing thoughts. He has his elbows on the counter in front of her. Panicking, she scrubs at her face and puts on the best smile she can muster. Her lips tremble, and she can only imagine how distraught she looks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, the words wavering. “But please don’t make me leave.”

Clint’s usually hard eyes soften. She’s only ever seen him look at his children this way. “I’m not going to make you leave. But I don’t want you bringing the mood of the place down. As you can see, everyone here is fairly pumped up.”

“Yeah,” she says, looking around. “What exactly is happening? Have I entered an alternate universe where Archers is actually successful?” 

“Watch it,” he advises. “I get enough of that shit from my wife. It’s starting to look like she’s never going to let me live down the fact that I left my job on the Hill to open a pub.”

“She can’t complain too much after tonight.”

“I should hope not. It’s this new band everyone’s got the hots for.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, signalling to the chalkboard. _The Winter Soldiers_.

“Okay, no-one says _got the_ _hots for_. No-one has said _got the_ _hots for_  in decades, I don’t think,” Darcy says, taking a sip of her salty vodka soda. The alcohol burns on its way down. The warmth is a welcome respite from the chill that had settled in her chest recently. “And that is the dumbest name I’ve ever heard. What does it mean?”

“The history of their name wasn’t on my mind when I booked them. People like them, so they’re here. If all goes well tonight, they’ve said they’ll come back.”

“That was nice of them,” Darcy teases, surprised by her ability to tease when her emotions are so frazzled. But that has always been her. Pretending to be fine until eventually she starts believing her own lies. The uncontrollable crying is merely a blockade she must overcome.

“Yes,” Clint says as a noise from the stage distracts them both, “it was. I think this is them.”

It _is_ them. The mob of fans gathered in the pub rush towards the small, raised stage in the dimly lit back. Mobile phones are dragged out of pockets and bags and off tables, and pointed directly at the group of men coming out of the back room—which at one point was home to only storage and Clint’s desk, but has since transformed into what Darcy has deemed a lousy excuse for a green room. 

There are five of them. The first three on stage look old. Too old to be performing in a band on a Wednesday night in the middle of DC. And they all have World War Two-era facial hair, which does nothing except make them look even older. The fourth member is visibly younger and much larger. Muscular. Tall. Broad chest that his guitar strap fits snugly against. His hair is almost golden in the low-hanging yellow lights above the stage. 

Then all hell breaks loose. The fifth and final member sits up front at the keyboard, and as he lifts his head to smile welcomingly at the crowd, the members of the audience lose their minds.

And so does Darcy. Vodka soda halfway down her throat, shock forces her to inhale. Flaming alcohol is sent into her lungs. She coughs. Wheezes. Liquid dribbles out of her nose and mouth, and she thinks maybe a little comes out her eyes.

“God,” she hears Clint say, alarmed. He hands her a few napkins and quickly soaks up the mess she has already made. “Jesus, what the hell was that?” 

Done spluttering, Darcy’s eyes peek at the stage. “I know him,” she says. What the fuck is he doing here in DC? In Archers? Darcy wants to know. She wants to barge through the crowd, run onto the stage, and demand to know why he is invading her safe space. 

“Know who? The lead singer?” Clint asks, still cleaning away the upchucked vodka soda.

“Yes,” she groans. “Him.”

“How’d you manage that? I thought you didn’t have any friends.”

She frowns at Clint. “I have friends. Just not ones I want to bring here. And I didn’t say he was my friend,” she says, her head filling with horrendous high school memories. She shakes them away before they get too comfortable. “Enemy is more like it.”

“Enemy?”

A few chords ring out of the speakers. The pub’s loud hum lessens in anticipation. 

“Proper enemy. Like, we absolutely hated each other, and he made it his mission to make my life a living hell for four fucking years.” She glances at him again. He looks happy. Too happy. And too well-groomed. He’s had his hair cut since graduation, and he’s finally managed to grow some stubble. When she knew him, he was always helplessly clean shaven. Someone with so much evil in their soul shouldn’t be allowed to look that good. “I was really banking on never seeing him after high school was over, but I guess the universe is just having too much fun shitting all over me at the moment.” 

She says that last part to the darkly painted wood ceiling. If there is someone looking over them, moving them around like pawns on a chess board, she wants them to know how fucking pissed off she is. 

Clint wants to respond, she can see it all over his kind, fatherly face, but someone comes up to the bar with a drink request. He apologises and goes to the customer, leaving Darcy to stare up at the stage in bewilderment as James Barnes opens his mouth.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen and everyone in-between, we are the Winter Soldiers, and it is an honour to be playing for you tonight.” 

The crowd loves him. She barely hears a word he says over their obnoxious cheers. And why shouldn’t they love him? He seems like a right charmer. That’s the trouble with him. One of the many troubles. He gives off an aura of harmlessness. Of appeal. The reality of what hides beneath the facade is a hell of a lot less attractive.

_He isn’t a good person_ , she wants to shout. A few more sips of her drink and she just might. _He’s the biggest, cruellest asshole I’ve ever known and I work with lawyers, and I think you should all go home right now_!

He laughs into the microphone and shoves up his perfect hair. “Right, well, thank you for giving us your Wednesday night. We hope not to disappoint.” He lays his fingers out over the keys. She didn’t even know he played the piano. She didn’t think people with such black hearts were capable of loving something as pure as music. “We’re gonna start with a fast one, is that okay?”

No-one objects—on the contrary, everyone in the audience screams oddly harmoniously—and into a fast one they go. 

And fuck, they are good. 

Darcy doesn’t want to admit it. She does everything in her power to hate their sound. But by the third song of their five-song set, she reluctantly agrees with the rest of the swarm: the Winter Soldiers are a good band. Their lyrics are a perfect blend of digestible and powerful once all of that digesting is finished. The music highlights every word in a brilliant way. She can actually hear the bass player. Always a plus in her book. 

His voice.

Almost saccharine. Too sweet. Too good to be real. It lands on Darcy’s tongue like droplets of honeysuckle nectar whenever she opens her mouth to sip more of her drink. 

It isn’t fair. It’s not right. The years have been kind to the worst person she has ever met. Kinder than they ever have been to her.

Okay, maybe he’s not _the_ worst person she’s met. The second worst. Somebody else has the top spot, and it would take James Barnes murdering an innocent child in front of her to displace that person. But he still is up there having the time of his life with his talented group of musician friends while she is down here trying to keep herself together with alcohol and denial. 

“I think,” Clint says, saving Darcy from staring too long at the stage, “that this has been a success.”

“No avoiding that, unfortunately.”

Clint reaches for her empty glass. “Right, right, the guy’s your enemy. Refill?”

Darcy moves her head up and down once and watches Clint search for the cheapest vodka bottle he’s misplaced. “He _is_ my enemy. Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” 

Having found the plastic bottle, he fills the glass with barely a full layer of vodka and dumps in a hefty amount of club soda until the bubbles reach the top. Darcy takes it. She’s too emotionally compromised to start an argument with Clint over her tendency to indulge too much in liquor when she’s upset. She will take what she can get at the moment.

“Like you think I’m crazy for calling him my enemy.” She takes a sip of her drink, noting that it doesn’t quite hit the spot.

“I had a guy who treated me like shit in high school. I don’t think I can consider him my enemy.”

Darcy looks at the stage briefly as the band start their final song. A slow, melodic number that annoyingly raises the hair on the back of her neck. “Trust me. That guy was not James Barnes. James Barnes was no regular bully. He was my Moriarty. Loads of people at that school picked on me, but none were able to get so under my skin like him.”

“Were you secretly a private detective?” Clint asks as the song reaches its bridge. “Watched a bit too much _Veronica Mars_ and got on the bad boy’s bad side sleuthing around?”

“It’s really not a joke, Clint,” she says harshly, and the small smile Clint had been sporting disappears.

“Sorry, Darce,” he apologises, sheepish. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. I think I’ve been a dad for too long. Real life problems are not solved with bad jokes.” 

Never one to hold a grudge against Clint, even when he is clueless, Darcy smiles the biggest smile she can muster. Which really only pulls her lips up half a millimetre, but it’s all the guy’s gonna get. “I’m glad you’re figuring that out now. Your daughter will thank you in five years.”

“Alright everyone, that was our last song.” James Barnes pouts, and the crowd vocalises their disappointment. Putting his hands up, he says, “I know, I know, but I’m sure you’ll catch us here again soon enough. In the meantime, I’ll be up at the bar if you want to chat. Thanks for being a great audience. Goodnight.”

Shit. The bar. 

She doesn’t want to see him. She doesn’t want him to see her. 

Darcy slaps her hands over her face. “I have to get out of here.”

“What? You know I can’t understand you when you’re covering your mouth.” 

“I have to get out of here,” she repeats, removing her hands and staring at Clint desperately, wishing for a moment she was a powerful wizard who possessed the ability to make herself disappear. 

“Relax,” Clint says assuringly. “He might not even recognise you.”

“I am so not willing to take that chance,” she says, frantically shoving her phone inside her bag.

And then she feels it. His presence. It stops her in her tracks, as if surrounding him is his own personal gravitational pull that impacts only her. She can do nothing to prevent her head turning towards him as he makes good on his promise to be up at the bar for a chat. Magnet to metal. Her blood runs cold the closer he gets. Instinct kicks in—yells at her to zip her bag and leave. But she is cemented to her barstool, hand halfway in her bag, mouth hanging open.

Striding up to where Clint stands, James Barnes holds out his hand. “You must be the owner,” he says, oozing charm. His voice demands that you fawn over him. “I’m James.” 

He glances casually around. For a split second, his commanding eyes land directly on Darcy. She is a deer caught in his headlights. Seconds from slaughter. She’s sure her heart stops.

And then he looks away. And she’s left stunned. And sort of pissed off.

Doesn’t he recognise her? He has to recognise her. There’s no way after what they went through in high school, after all of the times he got close enough to her that she could count his fucking eyelashes, that he doesn’t recognise her. She can’t be the only one still haunted by their rivalry. 

“James, nice to meet you. Clint.” Offering the clueless James his hand, Clint looks fleetingly at Darcy. Concern for her wellbeing is clearly etched on his hard face, but she’s too busy being stunned to wave him off. 

Several minutes pass with Darcy remaining still and silent. James orders a drink—whiskey, but she notices how he flinches every time the amber liquid touches his tongue. Handfuls of fans crowd around him, violating Darcy’s personal space bubble, to take photos and ask for autographs. 

He happily complies, ignoring his fellow band members who cradle glasses at a table near the stage by themselves. 

She really should leave. Clint is busy clearing away a broken shot glass. James Barnes is busy acting like a top-billed movie star. 

She really should just leave.

“Have we met?”

Darcy blinks, and the motion is painful. As if she has held her eyes open for too long and they’ve dried out. Hardly anyone is panting at James Barnes’ feet now. Archers is as empty as it always is on a weeknight. 

“Are you a regular?” 

It’s James’ voice. She would know it anywhere. She hears it sometimes in her nightmares. 

Closing her mouth and preparing internally for battle, Darcy says, “A regular where?”

A smug smile pinches James Barnes’ cheeks. “A regular at our shows,” he clarifies.

“I didn’t realise unsuccessful bands had regulars?” she says innocently, slurping the final drops of her barely-there vodka soda. Behind the bar, Clint snorts. 

James tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy dog trying to hide the fact that it could rip her throat out in the blink of an eye. Like he almost gets it. Almost understands. That smile remains. 

“What makes you say we’re unsuccessful? Did you see how packed this place was for us tonight? On a Wednesday no less.”

“Please,” Darcy says, both surprised and unsurprised by how easily it is to fall back into their old rhythm. “This place can hold 150 people. Max. There were maybe 100 people. Sure, it’s an okay size. But I’d hardly call it successful.”

“I swear to God I know you,” he says, squinting at her. 

He takes no notice of her insult. Sometimes he would do that at school. If he was too tired or if he was too busy trying to get into some girl’s pants, he would change the subject. 

It never worked. Not then, not now.

“Do you guys have day jobs?” she asks. 

“You’re deflecting.”

“Oh, I think you’re the one deflecting.” 

Darcy is vaguely aware of Clint watching them. She imagines his eyes moving between them as if they’re playing tennis. In a way, it is a tennis match. A continuation of the match they abandoned the instant their graduation ceremony ended with him spray painting the word _C_ - _U_ - _N_ - _T_ on her car. 

Here they are, grown-ups now, picking up their rackets like no time has passed. The same adrenaline that once pumped through her veins returns, thrilling her. Making her feel ill with rage and excitement. 

Surely, he must know who she is. This must be some addition to the game. 

“Tell me how we know each other,” he says. The smile slips further and further off of his pretty boy face. 

“Tell me,” she counters, “how many of tonight’s guests were paid to be here. Ten? Thirty? More? The longer you stay quiet, the higher my number gets.” 

James Barnes lifts his shoulders. “People like us. What can I say? Now, come on. Did we sleep together?”

Darcy’s face screws. “Ugh. No.” Then, because she figures it will be more fun when he finally snaps out of his stupor and remembers her, she says, “You used to emotionally traumatise me in high school.”

It hits him like a slap in the face. He shakes his head and breaks into one of the widest grins she has ever seen him sport. “Darcy Lewis,” he says.

Darcy mimics his look ironically. “James Barnes.”

“Wow. Fuck. Of all the gin joints in all”—

“Do not fucking finish that quote,” Darcy says, holding her hand up. “But I’m kind of impressed. I didn’t think James Barnes would know a _Casablanca_ quote.”

“Please,” he says, taking the last sip of his drink like it’s a shot of lemon juice. “No-one calls me _James_. Not even my grandma. It’s Bucky. Of all the people here, you should know that.”

Darcy doesn't appreciate the insinuation that she knows him better than the rest of the people in the pub. Better than even his own band members. Though, with how far apart they’re sitting, maybe, as his high school rival, she does know him better than them. 

All she really knows in the end is what buttons of his to push and how exactly to push them. That’s hardly knowing someone. Not in the genuine sense. That’s what torturers know about their captives. What vindictive exes know about their former partners. 

Darcy cuts herself off from that train of thought. 

“What the fuck are you doing in Washington fucking DC?”

“I moved here for a guy.” Darcy winces.

_Fuck_. 

How did he get in there? How did he weasel his slimy way into her mind and pull that from her?

She opens her eyes to find James smirking. 

“That’s funny,” he says, and she is wholly prepared to punch him in the face, “I moved here for a girl.”

Does this poor woman, Darcy wonders, know how many pairs of tits her boyfriend signed tonight? 

“Birds of a fucking feather,” she says, catching sight of the time. 

Clint has long since abandoned his mission to eavesdrop. He’s near the exit, chatting to a lumberjack type. 

“Look, I gotta leave,” Darcy says, disappointed they can’t continue this spar. She finally shoves her phone into her bag and zips it shut. “Early start tomorrow. Goodnight, James.” 

She hops off the stool and turns away from the staggeringly tall James Barnes only to have him wrap a large, surprisingly gentle hand around her wrist. 

Magnetic pull.

She sighs and rotates back around. “What?” She tilts her head back. God, she hasn’t missed this part.

“First off, it’s not James. It’s Bucky. Second,” he says, reaching into his back pocket and handing her a rectangular card, “this is my number. I’d love to catch up. It’s been ages. And who would’ve thunk that we’d both be in DC?”

The devil, she concludes. Pressing her lips together, Darcy says, “I have no fucking clue.” She takes his proffered card. Not to call him. In part to get him to leave her alone, and also so she can tear up the card and set it on fire in her bathroom. For catharsis. And for fun. 

“See you around, Darcy Lewis,” James calls as she finally manages to free herself from his orbit. 

She waves behind her and says a quick goodbye to Clint and the lumberjack. 

“Don’t think about him tonight,” Clint says, and she knows he isn’t talking about James Barnes. 

She won’t think of him tonight.

 

Except she will. He is on her mind as she drives the streets of DC towards her apartment. He is still there when she exits her car. When she climbs the steps of the three-story building to her top floor apartment.

He only vanishes when the door next to hers swings open as her key dangles in the lock. 

“Darcy, hey.” 

It’s her friendly neighbour. Overly friendly. Jane the brilliant scientist who Darcy expects works on top secret government projects. The ones that deal with aliens and silent wars. 

Jane gives Darcy a small smile. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Wow. Less than one month in this apartment and she already has more people concerned for her wellbeing than she ever did before. 

“Um, I’m okay. Tired. It’s been a long day.” 

The longest day.

James Barnes randomly popping up in her friend’s pub. 

What are the fucking chances?

“Okay,” Jane says, that small smile turning glum. “I only ask because . . . well, because Thor and I can hear you in the night. You know, crying. It’s these stupid thin walls.” She taps the wall separating their apartments. 

Oh, Darcy knows how thin the walls are. Jane and her maddeningly good-looking European boyfriend have heard her crying? She’s heard them banging at four o’clock in the fucking morning. At least she has the decency to muffle her sobs. 

“Right, yeah, the crying.” Darcy twists her keys and unlocks the door. “Sorry about that. Break-ups are rough, but I think I’m getting better,” she lies, fully aware that she is going to spend the next few hours weeping in bed. “Thanks for checking up on me, but you don’t have to worry. It’s all a part of the healing process.”

Satisfied with her explanation, Jane bids Darcy goodnight. Once inside her apartment, she is faced with the stacks of boxes spread across the floor of the living room, and that’s all it takes to dampen her cheeks. She steps further into the tiny apartment. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggles her toes in the carpet in an effort to centre herself. But the tears have already started, and it’s going to take a long time for them to stop. 

She looks past the sofa. The television Clint helped set up the night before. Going instead through the doorway to her right, she hits hardwood. With another right turn, she’s inside the single bedroom. More boxes fill the space. Ignoring them, as she has been for weeks, because acknowledging them just makes it all the more real, Darcy rips off her clothes and climbs into bed with her phone in her hand. 

For a while, she cries in total silence and total darkness. The only sound permeating the room comes from the AC unit stuck through one of the windows. The only light comes from her phone flashing with notifications. 

She hates this. Really, really hates it. No person is worth this kind of pain. 

Just as she figures the time has come for her to close her eyes and attempt some rest, her phone rings. 

“Hello?” she says without checking the caller ID. 

Her mom always tells her to check the ID. _You never know who’s calling you_ , _Darcy_. _It could be someone trying to rape and murder you_. And for once, she wishes she listened more to her mother.

“I need to know when you’re coming by to pick up the rest of your stuff.”

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” Darcy says tightly. “This call couldn’t have waited for a few hours?” 

“No, Darcy, it couldn’t have,” he says, and she can see him clear as day pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut the way he would when his over-protective mother phoned. “I wouldn’t be calling, but you said you’d do it two weeks ago.”

“Work’s been really hectic. I haven’t had a lot of free time.”

“Right. Work.” He doesn’t believe her, but he won’t tell her that. “How about this Friday? Can you come over this Friday? Or Saturday, if _work_ is still busy.”

She wants so badly to hate him. She tries really hard, but the effort just doubles her pain. “I really can’t do it this week,” she says honestly, because today might not have been a crazy day at the office, but starting tomorrow she has to start research for an upcoming case. “How about next weekend?”

He sighs, clearly frustrated with her, and says, “Fine. That’ll have to do. I can’t force you to come any earlier.”

“Why do you want my stuff gone so badly?” she asks, knowing instantly the answer to her own question and wondering why she couldn't keep her mouth shut. "She's going to be staying with you now. Is that right? Am I right?"

“She’s moving in, Darce. This Sunday.”

This Sunday. And Darcy’s things will still be there.

Cross-contamination. 

Darcy’s skin crawls. Her throat closes. Tears rushing into her ear canals as she lays on her back, Darcy says, “Okay. I’ll come by next Friday after work.”

He doesn’t say anything else. The line goes dead.

She wants to scream as loud as she can. She wants to rip her hair out. Grabbing the ends of her hair, she yanks down until her scalp burns. She cries out, not giving a fuck that Thor and Jane and the rest of her neighbours can hear her. 

Eventually, the crying wears her out. Placing her phone on the crappy bedside table the previous tenant left behind—an old, partially-destroyed wooden thing—Darcy stares up at the white ceiling, willing herself to fall asleep. 

Everything will be okay tomorrow. Tomorrow, she will be better.

 

 

.

_ We've had too much _

_ And we lost the thrill of it _

_ We've had so much, _

_ But it was never enough _


	3. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any mistakes. I've only had a short time to edit, but I will be back later today to finish up the process. I just wanted to get this out to you guys!
> 
> Enjoy.

 

 

**. **

_What better time_ _to take a ride with you_

_Through the universe tonight_

_The look of sound looks much like your face_

_And the symphony that helps me sing_

How'd You Like That | The Kooks

**. **

** Part Two | Life Is Pain, Highness **

 

**. **

  

Planks of white-painted wood litter the floor of Darcy’s bedroom. Sitting in the middle of the circle of slats, Shuri holds the instructions in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. Darcy stands at the mouth of the mess, fiddling with the music app on her phone, only half paying attention to the directions Shuri throws her way. She waves Shuri’s increasingly exasperated orders off. 

Frowning at her phone, Darcy unplugs and plugs the AUX cable into the headphone jack. A few crackles eek through the small speaker resting atop the newly put together chest of drawers beside Darcy’s bedroom door. Then, after another attempt, after another brush off, Oasis bursts into the room. Satisfied that her hard work has paid off, Darcy turns to Shuri and smiles. Say what anyone will about the Gallagher brothers, they knew how to write some kickass songs.

Shuri raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, her mouth set in a grim, unimpressed line. She opens her mouth and says something, but Darcy has trouble hearing her over the loud music. Darcy puts her phone down and cups her ear. She mouths _What_? Shuri speaks again, this time motioning with her hand to turn down the volume. 

A part of Darcy, the very grown up part, wants to play dumb and raise the volume. But that’s the alcohol in her system talking. The alcohol that has been gathering strength since Shuri arrived at her once-barren apartment five hours ago to help set up all of the IKEA flatpacks Darcy bought online. Instead of listening to the alcohol, like she really wants to, Darcy lowers the volume on the speaker.

“Finally,” Shuri exclaims, dramatically throwing up her arms. The beer in her hand thankfully does not spill on the blue and cream rug they rolled out earlier. “I swear you’re more childish than my big brother.”

“Your big brother. You mean the big brother who runs a humanitarian organisation?” Darcy plops on the floor in front of Shuri and lifts her brows. “That guy?”

Shuri tosses a packet of screws and a screwdriver at Darcy. “He’s a baby. Trust me. Now, if you please, I have been putting this thing together myself for the past fifteen minutes and I would appreciate some help.” Darcy starts to protest, but Shuri silences her. “No, no, no. This is the last one. Once this is built, we can relax and trash talk your ex all you like, but you have to help me.”

The prospect of trash talking Darcy’s ex seals the deal. Gritting her teeth—it’s been a long evening of drills and screws and tiny splinters, and she is ready for this mind-numbing and tiring part of moving to be over—she picks up the screwdriver and gets to work. 

“So, what are your thoughts on this new case?” Shuri says when they’re midway done. They’ve both risen to their knees as the object increases in size. 

“Ugh, no,” Darcy says, switching the head of her screwdriver and finding the compatible screw. “We’ve made it this far without talking about work. Don’t ruin my buzz.”

“But it’s fascinating, don’t you think?"

“Do I think it’s fascinating that a college student got run over by a DC tour bus? Not really,” Darcy says. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation. Then she spots Darcy’s concerned look. “I only mean fascinating because DC is doing everything in their power to stop this kid from suing the government. I don’t think I’ve ever done so much research on a case.”

As disgruntled as Darcy is to be discussing work on a Sunday night, when they would both be in the office in less than ten hours anyway, the reason for her annoyance stems from how much she has been putting into this case. She and Shuri have been tirelessly preparing everything for the lawyers over the past four days, and there is still so much more to do. So many bylaws to look at. Past cases against DC. Witnesses to interview. 

And she is so tired. Sleep has been an illusive ghost since her breakup. The alcohol doesn’t help. Nor does the stress from the case. All she wants is a day off. A real day off. With no plans whatsoever. No random phone calls from her coworkers. No news regarding her ex and his new living situation. 

No hazy dreams—really, they are more like memories—about James Barnes that only succeed in stealing more nighttime hours from her.

_Urgh! Darcy, stop_ , she commands herself. There will be time to let all of this consume her in the morning when she should be paying attention during the firm’s weekly meeting. 

“What do you think the outcome will be?” Shuri asks, resting back on her heels. 

Shoving everything from her mind except the task at hand, Darcy reaches for the drill and stares at the lump of wood between Shuri and herself. “Hopefully,” she says, “a bookshelf.”

Shuri knows that means work talk is over. Darcy sets off the drill, hoping it doesn’t disturb her neighbours too much. Jane had actually sent Thor over earlier during a loud argument between Darcy and Shuri and he offered his services, but the girls had sent the hulking blond god away. Mostly to avoid embarrassing themselves in front of him. Alcohol mixed with power tools mixed with semi-competent women is a recipe for foolish behaviour, as to which the splintered chest of drawers the two hastily put together can attest. 

Years ago, Darcy was doing this with her newly minted boyfriend. She remembered the happiness they felt when they finally found an apartment within the city limits cheap enough for the two of them. It was shitty—way shittier than the one bedroom she has now—and small and smelled damp no matter how often she had the windows opened. No matter how many air fresheners she invested in. None of its setbacks mattered, because she was with him. Day after day after day. She woke up next to him. Went to sleep next to him.

The first few days in the apartment were spent building furniture. He was the man, so he did the majority of the work while Darcy stood behind him handing him tools and offering him beverages. He didn’t let her help, even when a task required two people. But she didn’t think anything of it. Not then, at least. He cracked jokes, and she laughed, and she cracked jokes, and he laughed. And everything was perfect. Shitty, but perfect.

She had never been so in love. Hadn’t thought the feelings raging within her were something she could feel. Watching over him while he built their home around them, she had decided that was it for her. He was it for her. 

Look how well that turned out.

“You gonna actually put that screw in?” 

Darcy jerks her head up. Shuri looks between Darcy and the drill Darcy holds expectantly. There’s a hint of concern there as well. The kind of concern Darcy has been unable to avoid in recent weeks. Her friends are filled to the brim with it, dolling it out practically every time they see her. 

_Not doing a good job pretending you’re okay, Darce_ , mocks the voice in her head. 

“Yes,” Darcy says, quieting her inner thoughts. She really is going to stop thinking about all of the bad stuff now. 

To prove she is no liar—even though she totally fucking is a liar; her throat is raw beyond belief, she could burst into tears if she wasn’t clenching everything inside of her with all of her might—Darcy switches on the drill and returns to work. A handful of minutes later and there is only one step left. Standing to admire their handiwork, Darcy lets Shuri put in the last two screws. 

Huh. It looks odd. Not odd in the sense that they did something wrong—they followed every instruction—it simply doesn’t look like any bookshelf Darcy has ever seen before. Darcy cocks her head to the side. The tray on top confuses her. Is she meant to enjoy a hearty meal while standing at her bookshelf? Is she meant to store things on top that can easily roll away? 

Shuri joins her and immediately says, “That doesn’t look right. Have we fucked up?” She reaches for the instructions on the highest shelf and flips through the pages. “Apparently not.” She shows Darcy the final page. The image on the paper is an exact replica for what they are looking at.

“Then what’s this,” Darcy says, tapping the front wall of the tray. 

Shuri gasps in revelation and picks up Darcy’s wine glass and her beer bottle. She places them within the tray’s walls. “Storage for booze.”

“I doubt it,” Darcy says, laughing. She pulls out her phone as “Some Might Say” drifts into “Cast No Shadow.” Clicking on her web browser, Darcy searches the name _SOLGUL_ on the IKEA website. “Oh,” she croaks, her spare hand covering her mouth. 

“What is it?” Shuri grabs Darcy’s phone, whose hand gives it up without resistance. Shuri bursts out laughing. “No, seriously? Are you serious right now? It’s a fucking baby changing table!”

“I thought it was a bookshelf,” Darcy protests. “It looks like one on first glance. How was I supposed to know it was a changing table?”

“Because it says on the website _SOLGUL_ , and right next to it, it says _Changing Table_. There’s even a picture of a woman holding a baby,” Shuri says, gasping through her laughter. She shows Darcy the picture in question. “Was this, and be honest, a freudian slip on your part?”

Darcy shoves Shuri’s hand away. “You think I bought this because I subconsciously want a child?”

“Um, yes.”

“I think I bought this because as I was on the IKEA website last week, I also happened to be slightly drunk.” 

Shuri insists on making more jokes, and while she cackles away to herself, Darcy sets out to remove the top part of the changing table. She shoves their drinks into Shuri’s hands. Without the tray, it looks far more like a regular bookshelf. Darcy has no qualms about tossing the tray on top of the rubbish pile. Children have never been a part of her plan, not even when she was with her ex. 

This purchase was a simple mistake. And now her apartment is completely furnished. All that’s left to do is unpack the remainder of her clothes, books, decorations, and kitchenware. But that stuff can wait. Right now, all Darcy wants to do is go to sleep. 

Finally finished with her teasing, Shuri finds Darcy in the living room and says, “I think I’m too wasted to find my way back home. Can I crash here? Borrow some of your clothes for work?” 

Never one to deny Shuri, Darcy agrees to let the younger woman sleep on her sofa. After prepping the couch, Darcy searches for pyjamas and professional attire small enough for Shuri’s tiny frame. Thankfully, her nana thinks Darcy is four sizes smaller than she actually is, and thankfully her nana has great taste in clothes. She finds a long skirt and fitted blouse for work, plus a raggedy t-shirt from Darcy’s college days long enough to act as a nightgown on Shuri. 

“These should fit,” Darcy says, handing the bundle of clothes over.

Shuri takes them. “Thanks.” Darcy nods, starting to leave—so, so tired—but Shuri stops her. “Darcy, are you really okay?”

_No_ , she thinks automatically. Quickly. The word bursts into her mind without provocation. 

But she’s sick of her friends worrying so much about her. It’s like they think she’s on the verge of swallowing a handful of sleeping pills and downing them with gulps of vodka. 

So, instead of telling the truth, Darcy smiles. “I’m getting there,” she says evasively, which seems to be enough for the tipsy Shuri, who smiles in return and shoos Darcy away. Trash talking her ex will have to wait for another night.

“Thanks for the clothes. Goodnight,” Shuri says as Darcy walks to the bathroom.

“Goodnight.”

Darcy quickly gets ready for bed. She scrubs her face of dirt and oil. Slaps on her stupidly expensive moisturiser. Brushes her teeth so fast and hard that when she spits, blood splatters her white sink. In the darkness of her room, lit only by the moon, Darcy silently changes into her nightclothes, humming along to the quiet notes of “Champagne Supernova.” When the waves go quiet, she unplugs her phone and gets into bed. 

Underneath the covers, with no Shuri or IKEA furniture to distract her, Darcy is unable to stop the tears from flowing. They bubble hotly from her eyes and drip onto the pillow. 

She isn’t okay. At this point, weeks after the fact, it feels like she will never be okay. Forget tomorrow being a brighter, new day. The days are just as bad as the nights, only when she’s at work she can’t randomly burst into tears. She has to hide her sadness in the bathroom stalls. 

Heartbreak is the most painful illness Darcy has ever experienced. There is no guaranteed cure. No way of knowing when it will pass. No way of knowing if it will pass. She wouldn’t wish it on her worse enemy.

Not even on James Barnes. 

 

Darcy’s parents were unable to hide their shock and disappointment when she told them she had gotten work as a personal injury paralegal. It was over FaceTime, and their jaws both dropped. In unison. Because they were two halves of the same whole. After the smoke from her bomb cleared, her dad had asked what compelled her to join a personal injury firm. They thought, when she announced her plans to become a lawyer, that she would be fighting for the environment. Or battered women. Or children. Not for the people stupid enough to call the numbers on those sleazy commercials. 

Her mother had been slightly better at shaking off the dumbstruck look on her face. She had said how proud they were she had managed to get hired in DC so soon after graduating college. Of course, Darcy saw through her weak smile.

The truth is, Darcy has no plan to stay at this firm. Matt and Foggy were kind enough to give her a job. They are still kind, as they have yet to fire her. Especially when at the moment they probably have justifiable cause. The reason she sticks around in their first floor office in the seedy, dangerous part of DC is because she needs money. For rent. Food. GW Law School. This is a good resting point. A good place to get experience and feel the rush of solving a case without the anxiety of going before a judge. 

Besides, these are the good guys. They aren’t greasy or even slightly misogynistic. They fight for the little guy, specialising in bringing about lawsuits against the DC government. Which takes a lot of skill and a lot of guts. And a pretty sizeable pair of balls. 

Darcy joined the boys when their firm was new to the area. Both hailed from Hell’s Kitchen, a place Darcy previously thought was made up, and they happily made room for her. Matt is gentle. Blinded at a young age, yet he seems to see better than anyone else in the room. Foggy is a character straight out of a cartoon. Sarcastic, bubbly, more than willing to call people out on their shit. Shuri, who was added to the team only a year ago after the firm’s popularity skyrocketed, jokes he’s the male version of Darcy. 

Soon enough, with all of these high profile cases coming their way, Darcy will have enough money tucked away to consider applying to GW. And if she gets in, she’ll have enough—plus the scholarships she is bound to receive—to pay her way through. 

It’s only a matter of time before she can depart the world of personal injury law and join a firm in a nicer part of the city. 

On the Monday morning after the changing table debacle, Darcy browses the GW website for the thousandth time. The old buildings stir an ache inside of her. A longing to be back in the classroom, learning new information. Becoming the next Elle Woods. Except bustier, poorer, and brunette. 

Since her breakup, this is how she spends her lunch break. Eating a salad at her desk and scrolling through classes. Shuri decided to stick around the office that afternoon. Darcy is happy to have the company, but won’t tell Shuri that. It’ll give her too much of an unnecessary ego boost. The dark-skinned girl, who looks so good in the clothes Darcy’s nana bought Darcy is about to say she can keep them, starts playing music. There is a strict no music policy when Foggy and Matt are in the office. It understandably distracts Matt, and Foggy is one of those weird people who can’t multitask. If there’s music playing, he has to be listening to it. 

Darcy opens her mouth to give Shuri the good news, but the music stops the words from forming. She recognises the song. 

Heart picking up speed inside of her chest, Darcy drops her fork and gulps down her glass of water. “Who is this?” she asks, too aware of how frantically the words come out. She tries to take a deep breath, but it only goes in half way before forcing itself out. “Shuri, who is this?”

Shuri turns the volume on her laptop down. Their desks are pressed together to form an L shape, and Shuri turns her head to face Darcy. “It’s this new band that’s picking up traction.” _Yes_ , _yes_ , Darcy thinks, _but who are they_? “They’re called The Winter Soldiers. How cool is that name?”

Not cool at all. It’s a dumb name that makes no sense. 

She can’t breathe. Not with James Barnes’ weirdly soothing voice choking her. 

“Can you turn it off?” Darcy asks. It comes out like a pathetic beg. 

“Why? We’re free without Foggy and Matt.”

“Please, just, can you turn it off?” 

The urgency in Darcy’s voice must strike something in Shuri. She immediately presses the space bar. The office goes quiet. “Sorry,” she says. 

Darcy shakes her head. She’s such an idiot. A sensitive idiot. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I just . . . I know the lead singer of the band,” she eventually admits, wincing. 

“You what?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. I think you need to give me more information than that, though. How do you know this guy?” Shuri lifts her laptop and turns it so the screen faces Darcy. She balances the laptop on the palm of one hand, pointing to a figure with the other. 

James Barnes. Standing at the front of the group. His hair is slightly longer in the photograph. And his beard is fuller. Still, he looks exactly like the asshole she knows him to be. 

“High school,” Darcy offers, shutting the laptop. It teeters on Shuri’s hand. Shuri returns it to her desk, her mouth in an excited _O_ shape. 

“Did you and him . . .?” she asks suggestively.

Darcy’s nose scrunches. What a horrendous insinuation. “No. Gross. He’s the devil incarnate, okay? I thought when I graduated that I’d never be forced to think of him again, let alone see his face, but he just keeps popping up.”

“You’ve _seen_ him? Where?”

“Devil incarnate, Shuri,” Darcy restates.

Shuri waves her off. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you. But tell me, where did you see him?”

And another one bites the dust. Darcy bets that even if she were to divulge all of the borderline illegal things James Barnes did and said to Darcy during their high school days, Shuri will still fawn over him.

Fuck him. He gave her a nice reprieve for a few years, but now he’s back to fucking everything in her life up.

“At Archers. His band performed last Wednesday,” Darcy says reluctantly. She is not prepared for the girlish squeal Shuri emits. Her eyes widen as Shuri claps her hands and bounces in her seat. 

“Wait, does that mean he’ll be there again?” questions Shuri, her face splitting with glee.

Darcy wants to lie. She wants to hide Shuri from this part of her and forbid her from ever listening to The Winter Soldiers ever again. But she can’t do that. Apparently she’s too nice. “Yes,” she says, sullen. “This Wednesday. And probably every other Wednesday until they actually make it big and decide they’re too good for such a small venue.”

And that conversation, that admission, is how Darcy and Shuri end up in Archers on Wednesday night, sitting at the crowded bar and waiting for The Winter Soldiers to get on stage. Darcy would rather be doing literally anything else. Does someone have a baby they want her to deliver? Is there a patch of hot coals she can walk across? Can she take someone’s place in a fight? Really, she wants to run out of Archers and go home. To weep in the comfort of her apartment. To watch trashy reality shows until her mind is numb. 

But Shuri is ridiculously happy to be there. 

“He may be a white boy,” she said on their way to the pub. It’s close enough to their office that they can walk without it being too much of an effort. “But I think I want him to have my babies.”

“You want him to have your babies?” Darcy had asked, laughing despite her best effort to remain chilly. “Is that how it works with interracial couples?” 

“I’m sure as hell not letting any man knock me up. So, if he wants it to work between us, he’s gonna have to step up.”

Who is Darcy to squash her best friend’s fantasy of impregnating James Barnes, the worst person to ever exist? It is the kind of thing Darcy will let only Shuri get away with. Shuri, who let her sleep not just on her couch when the breakup happened—when she came home to find another woman coaxing vomit from her boyfriend’s stomach—but who let Darcy sleep in her bed. Shuri, who is willing to listen to Darcy’s rants on celebrity culture and European politics and the wage gap. Shuri, who was forced to leave her country, who has not been home since she was sixteen, who succeeds daily. 

She is the only person allowed to make heart eyes at James Barnes.

“No tears tonight,” Clint observes, finally getting around to taking their orders. It’s looking like he might have to turn away customers. The crowd is larger than it was just last week. Clint needs to think about hiring more staff. He only gets help on the weekend, but that’s suddenly not enough. “That’s a good sign.”

“Too tired to cry,” Darcy says, smiling at the blond-headed barman. “I’ll take a vodka soda, and she’ll have a Sam Adams.” 

Clint mentally takes note of their drink orders and returns less than a minute later. “I didn’t think you’d be here tonight, Darce. What, with that Bucky guy performing again.”

“Oh, so he’s given you permission to call him _Bucky_ now?” 

“He’s got a nickname only certain people are allowed to call him?” pipes Shuri, tearing her eyes away from the empty stage. 

Clint responds before Darcy can. “Yep. Dick move, if you ask me.”

“I wasn’t,” Shuri says, then she looks at Darcy. Darcy pretends to check her email. “What’s the origin story for that name?”

“I don’t know,” she lies.

“You’re lying,” Shuri—accurately—accuses.

Putting her phone away, Darcy sighs. “Fine. I know. But I promise it’s not an interesting story.” Shuri just stares at her. Expectantly. Darcy sighs again. Heavier and harsher. “It’s comes from his middle name. Buchanan. He’s been called Bucky all of his life, though, so I’m not really sure what started it. James is perfectly acceptable name.” 

Shuri mulls over this new information as the band makes their way onto the stage. Her best friend clutches her arm and makes that squealing noise again, her eyes wide with unabashed excitement. Her happiness is drowned out by the crowd. Thrilled as ever to be in the presence of The Winter Soldiers, Archers patrons rush forward. Shuri follows, leaving Darcy at the bar.

Darcy downs her drink in one burning gulp. In preparation for what’s to come.

Last to the stage is James. _Bucky_. He looks the same as he did a few days ago. Stubble. Hair quaffed perfectly. She bets the tight, plain blue t-shirt he has tucked into black, cuffed slacks brings out every unique blue splatter of his eyes. He reaches the keyboard, sits, and looks out into the audience. Then, he looks further, as if searching for someone. Then, his eyes land on her. He smiles. At her. A _gotcha!_ smile that churns Darcy’s stomach acid. She tucks her head and beckons to Clint.

“Refill already?” 

“Don’t get cheeky.”

Clint takes her glass. “Oh, no, I’ll leave that to you.” He comes back moments later, warning her to take it easy. 

He’s only looking out for her, so Darcy picks up the glass and takes small sips as the band situates themselves on stage. Shuri hasn’t looked back since they got up there. She probably won’t until it’s all over. 

At least someone is able to enjoy themselves. Maybe Darcy can sneak out and hang out at the 24-Hour CVS across the street for the next thirty minutes. She is seriously contemplating this when the first song begins. It’s not an original. Darcy knows this because it’s the opening base line from “Jenny Was A Friend of Mine.” 

How many times did she wear that Killers t-shirt during high school? She must have put it on at least once a week. Another gift from her nana. Given to her after Darcy had told everyone at Thanksgiving how much she loved this band she had just discovered. It’s the only item of clothing ever given to her by Nana that is a little too big, and that’s only because it’s a men’s shirt. She still has it. Buried in her PJ drawer. 

James’ voice is almost too soft for the song, but it isn’t bad. Not at all. Only different. And Darcy is glued to her barstool. And her eyes are glued to the stage. To him. His eyes are closed, and he sings the desperate words like an innocent child. 

_It’s a coincidence_ , Darcy assures herself when the song finishes. There is no way he remembers how much she loved that band when they were teens. Last Wednesday, he didn’t even remember her. 

Opening his eyes, the cocky, asshole of a lead singer says, “You guys like that one?” Everyone except those who stayed near the entrance cheers. “Yeah, it’s one of my favourites too. But we’re not a covers band. We are The Winter Soldiers, and we have some of our own songs to perform tonight. Let’s go.”

Immediately, the lead guitarist, the one Darcy wouldn’t mind staring at all night, strums his strings. The band is off, lost in its own world of fast music and annoyingly good lyrics. Darcy’s half-plan to escape to CVS falls by the wayside as she remains in her seat and curses her ears for enjoying the performance. 

James Barnes likes The Killers. It explains the song, though the knowledge that one of her favourite songs is also one of his favourite songs pisses her off. He shouldn’t be allowed to like anything that she does. Not after all the shit he put her through during high school. They’re already connected by their hatred of one another. It isn’t fair that they’re also connected by something as sacred as music. 

Before long, the band’s final song—the final song from last week too, which makes her wonder if they’ve stolen this move from Fall Out Boy—is over, and Darcy expects James to mention autographs and conversations, but he doesn’t. He only gives the crowd a sincere thank you and a wave. Retreating from the stage, he brushes past the buzzing throng of fans, all bustling to get back to the bar, and zips to the seat beside Darcy.

She should be startled by his sudden appearance. She should throw the remainder of her drink on him. To make up for lost time. But she’s a statue—that fucking magnetic pull. Only able to glare at him wordlessly as he asks Clint for a glass of water. Water. Like he’s a fucking teetotaller. Which she knows for a fact is not the case. Their classmates up in New York lauded him for his drinking habits. Last week, with the whiskey. The flinching.

Clint hands James his water, eyeing the closeness of him and Darcy with a small frown. Darcy glances at him long enough to silently let Clint know she can handle the situation without his help, and he goes off to take another order. 

“Darcy,” the singer acknowledges. Smug. Like she should applaud his ability to remember her name. He takes a sip of water, making sure to stare her down as he does so.

Rolling her eyes, Darcy smiles stiffly. “James,” she says through clenched teeth.

He frowns. “We’ve gone over this. It’s Bucky.” Forming a line behind him— _Bucky—_ are his loyal fans. All of them once again ignore the other members of the band. Well, all but one. Darcy spots Shuri getting their signatures and taking pictures with them. 

“Do you let these guys call you that?” she asks, fluttering her hand towards the mass. 

“Sorry folks,” he says loudly, his voice rising above the animated conversations happening at his heels. He winks at her. Winks. Like a sexist pig from an ‘80s film. He swivels around to face his admirers. “No pictures or autographs tonight. Go see the other guys. They’ll welcome the company.”

Their faces turn downward, but they surprisingly oblige. As they make their way to the table where the others sit, several glance longingly back, but he doesn’t see. He’s already returned his attention to Darcy.

“So. You didn’t call me. Or text me,” he says, and it sounds as though he’s offended. Just slightly.

Darcy isn’t sure what she expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. She remembers him giving her a card with some numbers on it and mentioning how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. But . . . “I didn’t think you serious about that.”

“Why wouldn’t I have been serious?” he asks, cupping the side of his face and leaning against the counter. He looks too casual. Too at ease while she sits there feeling like she is about to combust. 

Memories itch at her scalp, begging her to move through time. To return to the hallways of her youth. She shakes her head discreetly. “I don’t know,” she says sarcastically, “maybe it has something to do with how much we hated each other? I didn’t think that level of hatred simply disappeared with time.”

He looks at her like she’s grown an extra head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” She’s almost offended. She notices Shuri approaching from the back of the pub. “Maybe it’s best we pretend not to know each other, okay? It’ll be easier for me. Hey,” she calls to Shuri, “ready to go?”

“And leave without forcing you to introduce me to this man?” Shuri says. Her voice startles James Barnes out of his relaxed position. She laughs, cackles, and joins Darcy at the bar. Holding out her hand, she grabs James’ and shakes vigorously. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes. I’m a huge fan.”

When the shaking is finished, he looks first at Shuri then at Darcy, a question looming behind his eyes. “Hi. Do you two know each other?”

“Yes,” Shuri says as Darcy groans, “No.”

“Yes,” Shuri repeats, nudging Darcy’s side with her pointy elbow. 

James Barnes smiles as if he’s won some grand prize at the fair. As if he’s cheated the system. “Great. Does that mean you,” he says, looking at Shuri, “can convince her to leave this pub right now with me?” 

“What?” Darcy exclaims, anger bubbling inside of her. She can feel her skin heating, turning red. 

Shuri takes no time to think about the consequences of her words. “Of course,” she says, like it’s nothing. Like she isn’t selling Darcy to the slaughter. 

“You’re not my pimp,” Darcy grits. Any more pressure and her teeth might crack. Distress level rising, she searches the pub for any sign of Clint, but he must have gone to the back room for more supplies. He would save her from this mess. Probably. He did call James a dick earlier.

“Just go with him.”

“Yeah. Just go with me. What’s the harm?”

“What’s the harm?” Shuri parrots. 

She knows nothing. She knows nothing because Darcy has told her nothing, but if she knew . . . if she knew, she would not be telling Darcy to go. She would not be insisting on the harmlessness of Darcy leaving with this motherfucking prick. There is harm in her going. She has spent too long shoving aside the things he did to her. Shoving them down, swallowing the embarrassment and the cruelty of it all. The things he said about her. She doesn’t want to remember any of it. 

And Darcy can’t blame Shuri for not understanding the pleading she puts into her expression, but she stares at the girl, at her best friend, hoping for a miracle. No such luck. Shuri’s face is bright. Encouraging. She practically drags Darcy off of the barstool, handing Darcy her bag. Darcy had made the decision earlier to not admit her hatred for this man for the sake of Shuri’s gross crush on him, but she is largely regretting that now.

“Come on, Darcy,” Shuri says. Darcy wobbles on her feet, her throat thick with unsung memories. “Go with him.”

She wants to firmly put her foot down and say no. She wants to tell the fucking bastard standing nearly a foot taller than her to go to hell, his father’s waiting. 

So, why does Darcy find herself saying yes? Why does she find herself on the streets of DC with James Barnes in the middle of the night, their footsteps synchronising as he guides her towards the McMillan Reservoir? 

The area is creepy in the dark, even with the large amount of vehicles parading past. Even with the street lamps lighting their way. 

Has he brought her to the water to kill her? Darcy almost stops short. He may be the second worst person she’s ever met, but he’s no murderer. On the other hand, there is a fear blossoming in her belly that this is all part of an elaborate prank. Maybe he’s pulling a _She’s All That_ on her, making her think he wants to spend time with her when really, hiding in the catacombs of the sand filtration system are his cronies—oh, yes, that brilliant word again—ready to beat her down with insults.

“Come on,” he says, noticing she has fallen behind. “I won’t bite.”

Oh, she knows that to be a fucking lie. 

This is all wrong. It feels too weird. 

Why the fuck did she agree to this? What the fuck is she hoping to get out of it? 

“You know they’re trying to destroy this place?” he says, turning abruptly right and walking up the small hill to the fence surrounding the historic site. Standing a few feet behind him, Darcy watches him clutch the chain links. 

Darcy folds her arms underneath her chest. “Uh, yeah. I read something about it.” 

“I hope they never do,” he says quietly. So quietly, so beneath the sounds of cars, she isn’t sure she was meant to hear. 

“They seem to always save it,” she says. Then, because she’s frustrated and tired and was not expecting to have her Wednesday night be highjacked by this demonic ghost, she says, “Okay, this is fucking weird.”

Bucky turns around, standing like a giant against the fence, his face lit up by the lights behind her. “What’s weird? Two old friends catching up?”

“Whoa, we were never friends. Never. Don’t lump me in with your crowd. We hated each other. We should still hate each other,” she seethes, venom dripping from her canines. 

Bucky seems unfazed. “I don’t hate you,” he says. “Come on, what makes you think we hated each other?”

“I don’t know,” she says, scoffing, “maybe it’s got something to do with the countless times we butted heads? Or, maybe it’s the gross rumours you spread about me and my family. Or the things you would write on my locker? The notes you would slip me, then pretend they weren’t from you? We hate each other, James.”

“God, Jesus fucking Christ, Darcy! It’s Bucky,” he erupts, but there’s a hint of a laugh buried in there.

“That’s what you picked up from that? Why is it so fucking important that I call you _Bucky_? We’re never going to be friends. All of that shit you put me through . . . don’t you feel weird pretending it didn’t happen? Doesn’t this,” she says, gesturing between their bodies hysterically, “feel weird?”

He takes a moment to respond. When he’s found his answer, he joins Darcy at the bottom of the hill. A breeze drifts over them, and she picks up the scent of him. It’s different than when they were teenagers. Citron and sage compared to straight up Abercrombie and Fitch. “No,” he says. “I’ve always felt comfortable around you.”

“That’s not true,” she says immediately, humiliation bursting on her skin like hives. “That can’t be fucking true.”

“It is,” he says, laughing. His laugh is charming. Or, it would be if she weren’t desperately clinging to her hostility towards him. It crinkles his eyes. He shows off all of his teeth. 

“Okay, fine,” she acquiesces reluctantly. “If it is true, it’s why you found it so easy to be mean to me.”

“Was I really that mean?” he says, and Darcy wants to throw him over the fence, drag him into the reservoir, and drown him. “I always thought what we partook in was something more along the lines of playful banter.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. What about all those—”

He shocks her by pressing a forefinger to her mouth. “That was a long time ago,” he says, dropping his hand. She licks her lips, tasting salt. “And I thought you were smart. Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

Figured out what? That he really does hate her? She thought she got that part ages ago. 

Just as she’s about to fly at him with those pesky memories that have been trying to resurface all evening, her phone vibrates in her bag. _Thank God_ , she praises, pulling it out. Her eyes catch the caller ID. Darcy’s stomach flips over. Bile rises in her throat, leaving a bitter taste on the tip of her tongue. She is vaguely aware of her high school tormenter asking if she’s going to answer, but his voice is hollow against the sound of rushing blood in her ears. 

She has to pick up. Bravely, or stupidly, she answers the call, turning her back to James Barnes.

“We’re getting impatient here,” he says icily. Before she can even take a breath. “When are you coming to get your stuff?”

“Friday,” she chokes. She hates how weak she sounds. “I told you this already.”

“Friday doesn’t work for us.” 

They are already a unit. Bound by the royal we. 

She really wants to throw up.

“Well, when can you guys squeeze me in?” 

“Sunday.” 

He doesn’t wait for her to reply. He clicks off, and she’s left mentally checking her diary to see if Sunday works for her. It does, but what would happen if it didn’t? Would he get tired of waiting and burn her shit out of spite?

“Who was that?”

Darcy almost screams. Clamping her hand to her mouth, she closes her eyes for a second and breathes in deeply once. Recovered—sort of—she turns. “No-one.”

“It wasn’t no-one,” he says softly, regarding her closely. He says it like he knows. But he can’t know.

“My ex,” Darcy finds herself admitting. She smiles humourlessly. “You remember, the guy I moved here for. Yeah, he cheated on me, and he keeps bugging me about picking up the last of my things from his place. Guess he’s getting antsier and antsier because the other girl has just moved in.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Tell me about it.”

He matches her smile. “My girlfriend just left me for her boss. I found out they’d been having an affair a few weeks ago.”

Darcy’s jaw goes slack. She stares at this man in front of her, scanning him for any sign of deception. She doesn’t find any. 

“Look at that,” he says. “Both in DC because of our partners. Both cheated on by said partners.”

“Yeah. Look at that.”

Bucky wipes the underside of his nose with the back of his hand and looks beyond Darcy at the sky. “Listen, if you need help getting your stuff, I can, you know, help.”

“Really?” she says, that strange feeling returning. 

He meets her eye. “Yeah. Really.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, James,” she says, already knowing what his response is going to be.

“Fuck, Darcy, please. Just call me Bucky. You’re killing me,” he whines.

“Good.”

He laughs. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

“Well, for starters, when have we ever actually hung out?” she says. 

“Right now.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “This hardly counts.”

“Look, Darcy, we may have gotten under each other’s skin when we were teenagers, but we’re adults. That shit is over. We’re different people, I assure you. Please, let me help you out. And please,” he adds, desperate, “call me Bucky.”

That shit isn’t over. The longer she spends with James—with _Bucky_ —the more she understands that to be true. But he is right. They are different people now. They are two broken people. Whose love has been absorbed and dissolved by others. Whose hearts have been trampled. Split open. Left on the floor to fester. 

Darcy agrees. She says it quietly, and he asks her to repeat herself. And she does, reluctantly, and he walks with her back to Archers, his arm brushing against hers. When they reach the entrance, he asks for her phone.

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

“I don’t trust you,” she says, but she gives it to him anyway. He hands it back a minute later.

“Done,” he says, grinning.

“What have you done?” She frowns, checking her phone for damage. Has he looked up porn on her browser? Will she be getting viruses and messages from bots?

“Relax. I sent a message from you to my phone. I have your number, and now I can make sure we see each other again.”

Darcy’s mouth lifts in a small, confused smile. Confused because of the tingling sensation radiating through her chest. Confused because this man has never made her smile before.

He smiles back. Opening the door to a much emptier Archers, he lets her inside first. Shuri is still there, waiting at the bar for her. Clint seemingly lets out a sigh of relief when he catches sight of Darcy. Her companion for the past little while moves towards the back of the pub where his bandmates sit, the gear all ready to be transported. They exit the back way, and Darcy watches him, unable to move her eyes away. 

Magnetic pull. 

He looks back just before the door closes, and when it does, Darcy’s heart skips.

 

**. **

_ I feel for you, will you feel for me _

_ Let's work together _

_ Let's take it out across the sea _

_ To America _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you for all of your kind words. They're always what keep me going.
> 
> Secondly, would you believe that yesterday morning this chapter had only 400 words written? 
> 
> Thirdly, I added Shuri as Darcy's best friend because I'm sure that their personalities would meld very well together.
> 
> And fourthly, I hope you guys are intrigued. Don't worry, the past will be addressed in full a little while later. Until then, enjoy the weird connection these two have.


	4. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuses, excuses: big sister had a baby, so I went to Texas for two weeks; I got sick - twice; fall semester is approaching and I've been trying to prepare.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for being such wonderful readers of this strange story. I hope this chapter is somewhat satisfying. I will do all I can to update at least once before I head back to school. 
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> (PS - I'm uploading this at night when I'm too tired to edit, but I just finished it and I really wanted to get it out. I'll work out the kinks tomorrow!)
> 
> [PPS - Next chapter gets dark. Prepare yourself.]

 

**. **

_ I have a secret I want to tell you _

_ Each time that I close my eyes _

_ I can feel you _

Taking Pictures of You | The Kooks

**. **

 

** Part Three | You Can Lie and Cheat and Hurt People **

 

**.**

 

Law Offices of Nelson and Murdock has never been busier. There’s an electric thrum in the air as the four tired, dehydrated workers move about the cramped space, regularly bumping into one another. Darcy has two separate coffee stains on her white blouse from knocking into Foggy two separate times. Lettuce bits from the subs they ordered at lunchtime—the only food any of them have had all day, and it’s nearing 7 p.m.—are scattered around the whole room. No desk or section of flooring or manila folder is clean. Mixed in with the green are documents. Important documents that really should not be so haphazardly placed, but no-one quite knows what else to do with them. There isn’t the room. Or the time to be organised.

The DC government has fast tracked its response to their plaintiff’s negligence claim, and their decision to do so has caused a massive increase in stress and overtime. Due, of course, to their insistence the accident was their client’s fault. That he had a death wish. Most governments ignore this stuff until they can’t. And when they can no longer ignore it, they settle. No-one wants this to go to court, but apparently DC is sure they’ve got a winning case. And Darcy is not happy about it. None of them are. 

Returning from the squalid toilet on their floor of the building, Darcy nearly trips over a stack of folders in the doorway that had not been there when she left. She catches herself just in time, teetering on the edge of collapse until Matt—the blind man who sees better than Foggy, Shuri, and Darcy—rights her. He smiles at her, and she has the sneaking, almost creepy suspicion that he’s watching her behind his dark shades. 

“Thanks, Matt,” she says, walking on bare feet around the folders. Sidestepping lettuce shreds and coffee splatters. She reaches Shuri’s desk. Her stomach rumbles. Clutching her aching stomach, she says, “I’m starving.”

Shuri closes the folder she has been examining and looks at Darcy in surprise. The whole office has gone still as if Darcy announced the coming of a nuclear bomb. 

“Really?” Shuri asks.

“Yeah,” Darcy says slowly. She looks around the room. “Why? Don’t you guys believe me?”

“No, I do, I do. I just . . . don’t think you’ve said that since before the breakup.” Shuri bumps her bony hip into Darcy’s. “You’ve got your appetite back.”

Darcy thought about this for a few seconds. A difficult feat considering her coworkers were all still staring at her, waiting for her to respond. Or blow up. Or crumple into a heap. And then burst into tears. 

Her ex-boyfriend liked that she ate. It was one of the stupid things he admired her for. He said she was nothing like the other girls at school, who all starved themselves. Who all binge ate before sticking their fingers down their throats or swallowing laxatives. And even though she knew at the time how ridiculous his claims were—she had seen plenty of girls her size and larger, and she never considered herself _large_ . . . only slightly more curvy than some—she had suffered through boys in high school teasing her for her tits and her ass. And the one time in gym class during a game of volleyball when Darcy reached up for the ball and her shirt rode up too, revealing the pouch of her tummy. It was nothing significant, but the assholes latched on. 

James Barnes latched on.

The change of pace with her ex was refreshing. For a little while. The closer they got to their big blowout, to the discovery of the other woman, he made more and more comments about her weight. About the food she consumed. About the lack of her exercise in her daily routine. Not that she ever saw him doing any pushups, and neither of them had a gym membership. 

It all made sense when she returned home from work that day. The woman screeching at her from the floor of the bathroom, her body wrapped in a skin-tight, expensive-looking dress, her arms retreating from her ex’s shoulders, had bones jutting out that Darcy hadn’t known existed. 

Following the explosion, the great fireworks display that ended at the hospital, Darcy basically stopped eating. She would nibble on carrots. On slices of dry toast. On dull blueberries. Only because she knew she had to. For a while, she tasted nothing. For a while, her throat wouldn’t let her swallow. Each bite of food made her convulse. Her meals lasted for more than hour. More than an hour to finish one carrot. One piece of toast. One handful of blueberries. 

Her clothes hung loosely off her body. There was a constant clawing in her gut. Shuri got worried. Clint did too, and he would come by her empty new flat with food from the pub. Sit with her while she choked down the kind gesture. 

Recently, eating hasn’t been as difficult. Her tastebuds work again. So does her throat, which welcomes whatever food she offers it. Her stomach seems to have shrunk, and she is nowhere near able to eat as much as she once did, but she knows that with time and with training, she’ll get back to that pre-breakup place. No, she’ll get back to that pre-boyfriend place. 

Foggy breaks through Darcy’s reflection by asking what food she’s in the mood for. “Pizza,” she says without needing time to think. 

“I know just the place. I’ll take Matt with me,” Foggy says. He grabs Matt’s white cane, then Matt’s elbow. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes!”

“You don’t have to do any work while we’re gone,” Matt says, offering a warm smile before disappearing behind the wall. “Oh, and Darcy,” he calls, “your phone just went off.”

Reaching across Shuri’s desk, Darcy plunges her hand into her bag and pulls out her phone. Sure enough, she has one new message. “How does he do that?” she asks, her fingers vibrating nervously as she swipes the notification. She shouldn’t be nervous. But she is. 

“He’s like Haley Joel Osment in _The_ _Sixth Sense_ , only instead of being able to see dead people,” Shuri says, peering over Darcy’s shoulder, “he can tell when someone’s got a text message.”

Darcy twists her head, nearly knocking her skull into Shuri’s. “What are you doing?”

“I’m _trying_ ,” she says, exasperated, “to read your texts. But you won’t move your damn shoulder.”

“Stop looking. It’s none of your business who’s messaging me.”

“Why are you trying to hide it?” Shuri says, backing away. “You wouldn’t be trying to hide it if it wasn’t at least a little bit scandalous.” 

“That’s not true. I’m a very private person,” Darcy claims.

“Bull. Shit.”

Okay. No. Darcy is not a very private person. Especially when it comes to sharing things with Shuri. But she doesn’t want Shuri’s take on these messages just yet. On the person behind the messages. She wants to keep them to herself, at least for a little while. As she’s figuring things out. 

“Is it one of those sex things?” Shuri guesses.

“What?” Darcy says through a shocked laugh. 

“You know, one of those sex things. Are you texting some sex worker? You don’t have to be embarrassed, Darcy,” Shuri says the more uncontrollable Darcy’s laugh becomes—so uncontrollable tears prick her eyes. “I’ll understand if you need a little electronic action.”

Gasping for air, for a reprieve from the laughter, Darcy tries focusing her mind on the case. Slowly, she calms down. Her stomach hurts. Her cheeks ache from the stretch. Keeping her mouth in a straight line to stop herself from collapsing again into a fit, she realises she hasn’t laughed so hard since before the breakup. Since way before the breakup. Because nearing the end of her relationship, she didn’t have much to laugh about. 

Darcy allows herself a small smile. “Wow. I needed that.”

“Glad I could help,” Shuri says. “Now, are you going to tell me who you’re texting? You’re usually the only one of us able to keep your hands off of your phone during work. Well, aside from Matt, but that’s a whole other situation.”

For the next twenty minutes, Darcy tries keeping her phone away from Shuri’s curious hands. Darcy distracts her friend with case work. With celebrity gossip. It all only lasts for a minute or so before Shuri is back to asking questions. By the time Matt and Foggy show up, two pizza boxes in hand, Darcy is ready to snap her phone in two. 

Thankfully, for Darcy’s phone’s sake, the appearance of food distracts Shuri for good. The four settle into the pile of folders on the floor, clearing a space for the pizza. They dig in. Sounds of satisfied customers fill the room. Nothing is better after a long day than a nice slice of cheese pizza. 

“Your phone’s going off again,” Matt says, well into his fifth slice. 

Darcy’s eyes widen. “Okay, I took my phone off vibrate. And it’s buried in my bag. How the hell do you know it’s going off?”

Matt shrugs, but there’s a hint of a satisfied smirk on his face. He looks past Darcy. “Lucky guess? Check it for me. I want to know if I was right.”

“He’s always right,” Foggy says, which Darcy already knows. Matt can see better than any of them. 

Darcy reaches up to her desk and grabs her bag. Plunging inside, she checks her phone. Another message. “He’s always right,” she parrots. 

“Oh my God! You’re texting Bucky?” Shuri exclaims, her eyes finally having caught sight of the contact’s name. 

Darcy’s heart crashes against her ribs. Her blood pressure drops so fast, it’s as if she has just stood up after lying down for a long time. The sights before her go blurry. 

Beside her, Foggy jumps at Shuri’s sudden eruption. He coughs several times. Matt pounds on his back with a fist. “Who the hell is Bucky?” Foggy croaks after swallowing some water. 

“No-one,” Darcy grits, her mind scrambling. She watches Shuri roll her eyes.

“He’s a future rockstar. Gorgeous, too.”

“Evil,” Darcy says, though it feels inexplicably wrong to attribute that word to him.

“I’m so confused,” Foggy says.

“Then let me explain,” Shuri offers, and Darcy is too confused to stop her. “Bucky is a guy Darcy knew in high school. They didn’t get on. Cut to however many years later, they run into each other at Archers, where Bucky is a singer in a band, and now they apparently get on.”

“Oh,” Darcy says when Shuri sits back and grabs another slice of pizza. “I thought you were going to say more.”

“Is there more to say?” the dark-skinned woman asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“No. Well, we don’t exactly get on.”

“Come off it.”

“Shuri, this isn’t some rom-com bullshit love story. I did not spend the majority of my teen years being tormented by this guy to just suddenly forget about it now that serendipity has brought us together again,” Darcy insists. “We’ve been texting on and off. That’s all.” 

“To be honest,” Foggy says, “I think I’m more confused than when I didn’t know who Bucky was.”

“Perfect,” Darcy says.

Matt, saviour that he is, distracts Shuri with talk of her brother’s organisation, leaving Darcy to eat the rest of her dinner in peace. Relative peace. Because she lied. Just a little. Her and Bucky—yes, she has given in and now calls him Bucky; it’s his fault for sneakily adding it as his contact name when he had her phone Wednesday—have been texting more than _on and off_. It is way more on than off. Mostly it’s him bugging her. He reminds her of The Woman in the modern _Sherlock Holmes_ adaptation. She rarely responds, especially considering how busy she has been.

But she does respond. And then she stares at her phone, waiting for it to magically light up again. 

She hates herself a little for letting him worm his way into her life. She abandoned nearly all thought of him when they left high school. College pushed him out of her head for good, except for the occasional reminder on social media or when she browsed her old yearbooks. Then he showed up two weeks ago. Ruining all of her hard work. Texting her, making her anticipate his next message, making her laugh—horrible blunders she will never admit to his face. 

_Come on_ , his newest message reads, _what are you doing right now?_

Darcy sneakily responds, keeping one eye trained on Shuri. _I’m at work, if you must know._

His fingers must be quick as lightning. Not five seconds pass before her screen pulses. _On a Saturday? Why?_

_Well, you see, it’s this thing called a job. When my bosses need me, I kind of have to show up or else they’ll fire me._ They won’t fire her. Matt and Foggy have become far too attached to her, she knows. But if it’ll get Bucky off of her back, she’ll say it. 

_I have a job, thankyouverymuch. I mean, why are you working on a day most people get off?_

A job? What job? Darcy taps her phone. _You have a job? Aren’t you a super famous rockstar?_

_Very funny. You won’t be making jokes when I am a super famous rockstar._

_Come on_ , she goads, _what’s your job?_

_You’ll laugh._

_Are you embarrassed?_

_No. But I don’t want to picture you in a pristine law office laughing at my job._

Surreptitiously, Darcy pulls up the camera on her phone and snaps a picture of the room. It looks like the recent victim of a burglary. She sends the photograph and adds, _Pristine? I promise I won’t laugh._

_Wow. Did a bomb go off in there?_

_You’re avoiding my question._

His next response takes more than a minute. She’s about to give up and put her phone away when her screen lights up. _Fine. I’m a substitute history teacher._

Okay. Darcy lied. She glances at his reply and has to stifle a shocked laugh. _You? A teacher of young minds?_

_Only occasionally_ , he gets back quickly. 

_I never could have guessed that James Barnes would become a substitute history teacher._

Though, Darcy supposes, a part of that makes sense. He always excelled in history. She hates that she knows that. Funny how she knows far more about her bully than her ex-boyfriend, whose favourite subject in school she still hasn’t figured out. 

_Bucky_ , he fires, and she smiles despite herself. Then, _Enough about me. When do paralegals get off on Saturdays?_

“When do you think we’ll be done here?” Darcy asks aloud.

“Why do you want to know?” Shuri says curiously. Very, very curiously. 

Darcy shields her phone. “No reason.” She looks at Matt, who she is sure knows she’s looking at him. “So, any idea?”

“No more than another hour. I’m starting to lose track of our argument,” he admits, wiping grease from his stubble. 

“Thanks.” She holds her phone up to her face, far enough away from Shuri’s prying eyes. _8:30. Why?_

_How would you like to come to my gig?_

_I didn’t know The Winter Soldiers performed on the weekends?_

_They don’t. It’ll just be me. My set starts at 9:15._

Just him. 

Darcy’s heart thuds. She feels panicked all of a sudden, as if danger looms at the corner of her eye. Barely out of reach. And if she looks, the life will be sucked from her lungs, leaving her gasping and alone and dying.

God. When did she become so dramatic?

With shaking fingers, Darcy types out her reply. _Okay. Give me the address and I’ll be there._

 

Inside the office, taking up a huge amount of space, is a standing wardrobe. A large standing wardrobe. Big enough to be the wardrobe from _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_. They’ve tried multiple times to move it, but it won’t budge. It’s attached somehow to the floor, and none of them, nor any handyman, has been able to work out how. Or how to detach it. So, it sits near the entrance as storage for random items. The only good to come out of it is its superb ability to store their clothes. The clothes needed after a long night at the office so their nosy neighbours won’t think they’ve come home from a one night stand.

The clothes needed for when your high school nemesis invites you to a solo gig at the last second and there isn’t time to go home, so you take your chances on the frustrating wardrobe. 

Darcy is lucky she left a nice outfit in here. Between Foggy’s stained suits and Shuri’s puffy jackets with tears in the arms from the splintered wood of the office doorframe, Darcy finds a black summery dress with thin straps and a cinched waist. Everything about it is perfect aside from the light musky smell. But she doubts Bucky will get close enough to smell her, so she goes to the bathroom, careful not to let the long skirt drag on the floor, and shucks her clothes. The stained blouse will live forever at the office, never to be cleaned again. 

Darcy inspects herself in the full-length mirror out in the main area of the bathroom. As cramped as she is, and as horrible as the lighting is, and as warped as the mirror is, she can tell she looks presentable. A little over the top. Especially for a gig. But it’s either this or a blotchy shirt, and Darcy chooses the dress.

“Whoa, where are you going dressed like that?” Shuri is alone in the office, tucking the final manila folders in their filing cabinets. Once again, the floor is a floor. Matt and Foggy must have left to throw the pizza boxes away.

Darcy twirls. The skirt of the dress billows slightly out. “Do I look nice?”

“Nice is an understatement.” Shuri closes the filing cabinet and steps out from behind the L. She lifts an eyebrow. “You dodged my question.”

“Did I?”

Shuri isn’t taking Darcy’s attempt at coy. “Where are you going?”

Darcy’s shoulders slump. “Promise you won’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I make no such promise.”

“Great,” Darcy says drily. “I’m going to see Ja—Bucky.”

Shuri makes a big deal out of it. She asks a dozen questions in one breath, clutching Darcy by the shoulders. Darcy ignores the inquiries. Mostly because she can’t make sense of them, but it doesn’t stop Shuri from repeating herself. Eventually, Darcy is able to extract herself from Shuri’s grip and from the building without giving any information away. She meets Matt and Foggy on her way out, saying goodbye and that she’ll see them Monday morning if they’re all lucky enough to not be forced into the office on a Sunday.

The address given to Darcy by Bucky is near enough to Archers that Darcy feels comfortable walking. With the sun just grazing the tops of the buildings, she makes her way to the performance space, a much busier and larger bar than Clint’s place. Blue and green lights shine over everything, giving Darcy the sensation she’s underwater. Beyond the bar, which is a giant rectangle in the centre of the building with four servers, one for each corner, is a raised stage. 

Do his bandmates know Bucky plays at bigger venues without them? she wonders just as her eyes catch a glowing sign above the mic on stage. _Open Mic Night_. It mustn’t be serious, then. Not a massive endeavour like The Winter Soldiers. Just a place to go for fun. A place to go when he wants to invite along an old enemy. 

What is she doing there? 

“You’re just in time,” says a voice to her right. Darcy spins, coming face to face with Bucky. He smiles at her. His eyes scan the black dress. “You look nice. But you didn’t have to dress up just for me.”

Darcy places a hand on her hip and morphs her mouth into an unimpressed line. “It was either this or coffee stains. I went with this.”

“I approve.”

“Good to know.”

His smile grows wider, and when he looks off to the stage she takes the opportunity to stealthily appraise him. His clothes are far more casual than hers. She is an attendee at the Governor’s Ball in her dress. Wearing a loose-fitting grey t-shirt and dark wash jeans, Bucky is 14 and enjoying his first homecoming dance. She should have kept the stained blouse on. Judging by the amount of ripped jeans and pre-torn shirts in the vicinity, she would have fit right in. 

Bucky looks back at her, and she quickly diverts her eyes, choosing to focus instead on the boy climbing up the side of the stage. 

“Have you been to this place before?” Bucky asks as the boy adjusts the mic stand and tests the volume of the speakers with a few taps. 

She refuses to look at him. She knows it’s what he wants, because she can feel his eyes creeping up from her thighs to her neck to her hairline, but she watches the boy on stage. “I haven’t really been anywhere.” It’s a lie. He—Darcy’s ex—would take her to the seediest parts of town, to the dirtiest dive bars, for music. This is a new venue to her, though. Too new wave for her ex. No artist he enjoyed would perform at at a place with multicoloured lights. 

“We’ll have to change that.”

Darcy looks at him then. Because of the audacity of that statement. As if there will ever be a “we” involving her and fucking Bucky Barnes. She raises her eyebrows. “Will we now?”

He nods his head, smiling casually. Like he’s so laid back. Like meeting at bars in DC on a Saturday night is normal for the two of them. “There are so many places in this city, Darcy, that I’d love to show you.”

The kid on the stage finally makes his fumbling way to the microphone. He taps it, and a screech of feedback takes Darcy’s mind off of responding to Bucky. Which is handy, because she isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Places he’d love— _love_ , a word she thinks shouldn’t be thrown around so offhandedly—to show her. Places like the McMillan Reservoir? Where he can look at her and stir things inside of her that should not, under any circumstances, be stirred? 

No, thank you. 

“Oops, sorry about that guys.” The kid on stage uncovers his ears and smiles awkwardly. “I’m new at this, if you can’t tell. Um, I’m up here to let you all know that we’re gonna get started with the open mic, so,” he says, reaching for a clipboard someone at the foot of the stage hands him, “if I can get our first performer up here, uh, Wanda. Oh, and a reminder, only two songs per performer. I know we usually let you all do three, but there’s a surprising amount of people that signed up tonight, so, yeah. Thanks.”

Wanda, a tall woman wearing all red, walks confidently up the side of the stage. The kid steps back, but the mic still picks him up when he says, “Ooh, I like the red streaks in your, uh, in your hair. Super cool.” And then the mic picks up Wanda’s lack of response. The kid wanders off stage, his head bowed, and a wash of sympathy for him hits Darcy. 

“Let’s find a place at the bar,” Bucky says. 

She nods, and suddenly there is a blazing palm pressed against her back, guiding her towards the section of the bar farthest from the speakers mounted at each end of the stage. As if she can’t walk upright by herself. As if she asked for him to help her. Which she didn’t. She distinctly recalls not asking him to do that. But she doesn’t ask him to drop his hand, either. The warmth of his skin strikes through the thin fabric of the dress, and even though she wasn’t necessarily cold before, she doesn’t even feel the breeze from the standing fan by the entrance as she passes. 

Hopping up on a barstool, a cascade of goosebumps trickle down her arms the moment Bucky’s hand slips away. She rolls her shoulders. Sucks in a deep breath. She’s been single and lonely for too long, clearly. Her body should not be reacting to him like this. Like it _wants_ him to touch her again. 

Back when they were young, at the close of eighth grade, before she had figured out that he was the biggest fucking asshole ever born, he approached her at the end of year dance and offered to dance with her. This was a rare moment, because Darcy had not quite fully come into her own. She thought she had to be nice to every boy she came across. She thought she had to jump at every opportunity to be in close proximity with a boy, because who the fuck knew when another opportunity would come along for her. 

It was during a slow number, and James Barnes grabbed her hand and pulled her into the centre of the gym floor while “Chasing Cars” played. She liked the song, even if she didn’t like the boy, and she pretended not to care or feel sick when his hands pressed into her lower back, forcing their bodies closer. Midway through the number, his hands, instead of moving even lower, crept up her spine, to the middle of her ribcage, and without prompting she leaned into him, moving her arms from around his neck to around his waist. She stared up at him, and he looked down at her, and with the cheap disco ball rotating above their heads, making his eyes glitter, Darcy felt warm all over. She felt comfortable. And when he smiled, she smiled back. 

She vaguely knew who this guy was. They had gym together. Maybe. He was obnoxious, but what thirteen-year-old boy isn’t at that age. He also looked at her like she was the only person in the room, like nothing else in the world existed, and that made her heart race. Made it swell. Like it was going to burst. Small Darcy Lewis, whose chest was already too big for her liking, whose hair was so thick she didn’t know what to do, finally understood the boy-obsessed girls in those stupid books her mom kept giving her. 

The song ended, and she thought maybe he’d share his name, or ask her hers, but as they separated he glanced over at the wall where the majority of the students were waiting out the slow song, and she swears to this day she could feel a change as they separated. His skin grew cold. So did his eyes. He pulled away, looked back at her, and said too loudly, “Nice tits.” Shocked, Darcy stared after him. He ran to a group of boys, his head lowered. When he reached them, they slapped his back and all burst into a chorus of laughter. And Darcy was left on the dance floor, simmering in confusion and anger.

She didn’t forget about the incident over the summer. No, it only strengthened in power during those months. She would dream about it. Come up with a myriad of responses she hadn’t been brave enough or clear-headed enough to throw at the bastard in the moment. Freshman year came along, and she found herself seated near the guy in history. His eyes found her the instant he stepped into the classroom, but he pretended as if he didn’t recognise her. Or, maybe he _didn’t_ recognise her. That thought only pissed her off more. She decided as their teacher spoke and he joked obnoxiously with his neighbour that she hated him. After the class finished, she called him an asshole as she sped through the doorway, and that was the beginning of the end for them. 

Except it wasn’t, because here she is several years later with the same sensation brewing inside of her that she felt during that fucking dance. She is supposed to despise this man. This child. He has said and done so many cruel things to her in the past. Time, regardless of the popular saying, does not heal all wounds. Not this kind. Not the kind of wounds that fester and induce sepsis. 

But his eyes are glittering again. And is Wanda singing “Chasing Cars” or is Darcy going mad?

“I love this song,” Bucky says, and she startles, because his voice tickles her ear. He moves in close, smiling, his focus moving between her and the woman on stage. 

It is “Chasing Cars.” What are the fucking chances? Her life is starting to look more and more like a shitty ‘90s rom-com. 

“I don’t,” she says quickly. White lie. But who’s counting at this point? 

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Why not? It’s a classic.”

So, he doesn’t remember the dance. Has he blacked out all of their years together? It’s starting to seem that way. She wishes she could do the same. “It’s played way too much,” she complains. 

“I guess that’s true. Should I take it off of my setlist, then?” he asks, and it takes her a moment of panic to realise that he’s joking.

“Ha. What are you singing tonight anyway? What did I abandon my team for? It better be worth it, or I’m going to make you pay me whatever it is I missed out on by coming here.” 

Bucky shrugs his shoulders, his lips pulling downward. “You’ll have to wait and see,” he says as Wanda stops singing and thanks the audience. The kid from earlier returns to the stage, clapping. “I’m up next.” Wanda exits down the stairs, waving at the few people still applauding. 

“That was amazing, Wanda. Great job. Really,” the MC says. He looks down at the clipboard. “Next up is, uh, Bucky?” It comes out as a question, which makes Darcy laugh. She can hardly blame him for being confused. Who names their child Bucky? And, in Bucky’s case, who allows their child to forego their regular-sounding name and go by Bucky instead? 

Bucky slaps the announcer’s back as he boards the stage, having found a guitar somewhere between the bar and the stage steps. She thinks she hears the boy ask Bucky if he got the name right before he departs. Bucky is alone on the platform, grinning out at the audience as he grabs a stool and takes a seat. He fiddles with the mic stand even though from where she sits it looks to be the perfect height. Could be a sign of nerves, but she doubts someone like him—someone who oozes confidence and asshattery—gets nervous. 

Unlike the two times she has seen him perform as lead for his band, Bucky doesn’t start the two-song set with an introduction. In fact, he doesn’t present himself at all like he does at Archers. When he starts strumming the opening notes of his first song, his head is bent so far down she can’t see his face. It’s as if there are two different versions of her high school rival. Or, three, if she counts the version she knew when they were younger. The guy on stage now is lost in the sound of his own guitar. The world could be falling apart around him and he wouldn’t stop the movement of his fingers. Wouldn’t even look up. 

Darcy sits at the bar and stares. Blatantly. Along with everyone else in the room. She doesn’t know this person. Looking at him doesn’t feel like a betrayal of her teenaged self. And it makes her wonder, every so slightly, in the back of her mind, which version of Ja—Bucky is the genuine version. The version he is when no-one else is watching.

By the time Bucky lifts his head and opens his mouth, Darcy exhales as if she has been holding her breath for five minutes. The words fall out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes remain closed, but in the twirling lights of the bar Darcy catches the strain on his face. The song is over in under four minutes. When the final hum of the guitar fades, there’s a second of silence before the crowd, as Darcy knew it would before he even got up there, erupts. 

He opens his eyes finally, and they instantly—fucking magnets—find Darcy. He smiles. Then, he jerks his head. She frowns. He jerks his head again, like he’s beckoning her towards him. Fear sinks into her gut. She frantically shakes her head. _No_. _FUCK no_. 

“Come on.” His voice quiets the audience. He laughs, but he doesn’t look away from her. “Darcy, come up her. Don’t you guys want her to come up here? She’s still shaking her head.”

“I won’t,” she says, her voice coming out louder than she intended. 

The crowd dislikes her response. Several people—random strangers—start encouraging her to join Bucky. 

“You can’t disappoint them,” Bucky says.

“Actually, I can. What do you even want me up there for?”

He looks around him. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Someone grabs her arm and tugs her off of the barstool, and even as she tries to escape, because this is starting to feel more and more like a kidnapping, or like she’s being dragged to a cliffside as a sacrifice, she begins to accept her fate. She is being marched towards death and there is nothing she can do about it. 

Bucky greets her at the top of the stairs. He guides her to the mic stand. Stupidly, she looks out into the sea of people standing below. A sudden urge to vomit slips up her oesophagus, but she swallows and focuses instead on the words Bucky whispers into her ear.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, covering the microphone.

“Easy for you to say. What the fuck am I doing up here?” 

“Singing a duet with me.”

“But I don’t sing.”

“That’s not true.”

She’s about to correct him, but he’s right. It isn’t true. But how does he know it isn’t true? 

She hasn’t sung in public since eighth grade. Her mother forced her into chorus that year, and Darcy was unlucky enough to be given a solo during the end-of-year recital. She had to sing an entire verse of “Song of Purple Summer” from her chorus director’s favourite musical in front of the whole school. 

Was he paying attention to her even then? Even before the “nice tits” fiasco at the dance later that month? 

“You’re doing this,” he says unwaveringly.

“What is _this_?” she asks, suddenly aware that she has forgotten both the titles and the lyrics to every song she’s ever heard.

His smile spreads. “‘Dustland Fairytale.’ You sing the verses, I’ll harmonise on the choruses.”

She’s too terrified to be shocked that he’s chosen another Killers song. “But what key?” she asks as Bucky’s hand slips away from the microphone.

“Your voice will know what to do. Take it slow. Trust me.”

She almost says _never_ , but a combination of nerves and the fact that he’s already started playing, returning to that place he visited during the first number, stops her. 

And dammit, he’s right. Her voice knows exactly what to do. She hears her cue without knowing it’s her cue, but her brain must, because her jaw drops and the words come pouring out. She takes it slow, as he said to, and when their voices join together during the first chorus, she looks at him out the corner of her eye and is nearly thrown off course by the look he’s giving her. Like he’s actually happy to be up there with her. And like he wants to eat her, but she can’t be sure if it’s in a cannibalistic serial killer kind of way or the other, much worse, way.

She has never understood it when books described situations like these—enemies uniting for the good of the human race, which is clearly what they are doing right now—as having a charged energy. But Darcy Lewis is sure that if she lifted her hands from the mic stand and touched the air, her fingertips would be singed by the electricity in the atmosphere they’ve created. 

 

“You really were amazing up there.”

Darcy stares at the ground as she and Bucky walk towards the office parking lot where her car is hopefully waiting for her. “You can stop saying that.”

“I don’t want to stop saying it. You have to admit that it was the biggest applause of the night, and we were only the second performers.”

“ _You_ ,” she says, sidestepping a box television on the sidewalk with the word “free” written across the bashed screen, “were the second performer. _I_ was held up there against my will.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Bucky claims. He leaves no room for argument.

Rolling her eyes, Darcy covers her mouth to hide the small smile threatening to break loose. She fakes a yawn. Silence settles between them for the next couple of blocks. They wait at a light, and Darcy watches the cars zip by, and she wonders where they’re going at this time of night. Who they’re racing to see on a Saturday. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Mothers, fathers. Or, maybe they’re like her. Maybe they’re headed for an empty one room apartment with a baby changing station as a bookshelf. 

Darcy sneaks a look at the towering man beside her. He’s watching her, and she is struck by how fucking weird this still is. To be standing next to James Barnes, who she now calls Bucky for some fucked up reason, in the middle of a DC night after they’ve just sung an impromptu duet. To be anywhere near him and not simultaneously be shouting at him. 

So fucking weird.

Darcy shakes her head and looks at the crossing signal. It turns in their favour, freeing them from the confines of the street corner. 

“So, what time should I be at your place tomorrow?” Bucky asks as they near the office parking lot, ruining the quiet. 

Darcy nearly stops short. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m gonna help you move your stuff out of your bastard ex’s place,” he says as if it is something they’ve had planned for weeks, and how dare she forget. 

But she does remember. “I told you, it’s not a good idea.” 

The humidity in the air seeps into Darcy’s mouth as she tries to breathe, blocking her airway. She panics. Balling her hands into fists, she looks up at the starless sky and blinks away the memories swimming to the surface. 

She can’t tell him. Him, of all fucking people. 

“And I recall squashing all of your concerns. What time should I be at your place?” he asks again, not picking up on her sudden dip into panic mode.

Darcy’s legs stop working one block away from the carpark. “Seriously, James. My ex . . . it’s fucking complicated.”

“It’s Bucky,” he says.

Darcy’s skin feels as though it’s peeling off of her flesh. She furiously itches the back of her hand. And she was having such a pleasant evening pretending her life wasn’t falling to pieces. Of course this prick had to show up and ruin everything. 

“You really don’t want to come,” she insists.

Bucky frowns. His whole face scrunches. Even his pouty lips. “I’ve told you that I want to help. Let me help you.”

“But there’s something you’d need to know, and I don’t think I can tell you.” Fuck. She really feels like she’s choking. Like the clouds are filled with smoke and she's breathing in flames. Her chest tightens.

“If this is about you having a secret crush on me in high school, I already know,” he says, reaching out and lightly touching her arm, and it’s here that Darcy remembers how James Barnes deals with shit like this. He jokes. Makes light of the situation, like any good traumatised kid. 

She feels sorry for him. Just a little. Because she also remembers that they are in the same boat, drifting aimlessly together in a sea of betrayal and confusion. Abandoned by the people who promised to love them. 

So fucking weird.

Darcy blinks her stinging eyes. “Hardly,” she says, her breathing calming. “I really didn’t like you back then.” _I’m not sure I like you right now, either_. But she doesn’t say that part. 

“Then?” he says, his eyebrows lifting suggestively.

“Bucky, please,” she begs, an exhaustion coming over her. “Look, I’ll tell you.” And she thinks maybe it’s her use of his stupid nickname that finally shuts him up. His eyebrows lower. His blue eyes open, like the ocean inviting her in. “My ex . . . it’s Ian.”

 

**. **

_ I have a secret I need to tell you _

_ Exquisite visions fill up my mind _

_ Do you remember me _


End file.
